between syllable and sound
by Mira-Jade
Summary: There's a way Sherlock Holmes sees the world that is completely baffling to those around him - including one John Watson. A collection of ficlets.
1. between syllable and sound

**"between syllable and sound"**

**Genre**: Humor, Drama  
**Rating**: PG  
**Time Frame**: General  
**Characters**: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes (a few guest stars. )

**Summary**: There's a way Sherlock Holmes sees the world that is completely baffling to those around him - including one John Watson. He's not sure whether or not he should be disturbed that he was starting to catch onto the other man's logic . . . just barely, anyway.

**Notes**: This is merely a string of ficlet-like-things, since my muse couldn't develop just one. For now, this is it, but anything of the like may be posted to the thread sometime in the future.

And this fic is completely dedicated to **Chim** – who introduced me to the original Sherlock Holmes one cold winters night a lifetime ago in middle-school . . . And to one **Idrelle_Miocovani** (And **Mar17swgirl**, by extension. ) who introduced me to this AMAZING show!

Thank-you, gals, for being all sorts of different levels of awesome, and then a few more.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing but for the words . . . And Idri's brilliant inspiration of naming the skull Yorick is hers, as well. Not mine.

* * *

_"between syllable and sound"  
by Mira_Jade_

**I.**_ it calls and it echoes on and on . . .  
_  
He dreams often, not in paltry black and white – a nondescript haze of repressed memories recalled - but in vivid color. It is easy to call adrenaline to mind like this, with his nose filling with the acidic scent of smoke and and the taste of dust and grime coating his mouth like rainwater finding cracks in the pavement. The memory of blood making his hands slippery as he urged life to flutter inside of the comrade under his care . . . It was living, this dreaming. Far worse than the horrors of war, for him, was the twisted view of a war's glory to his mind. An addiction as tangible and as sweetly seductive as any ambrosia.

He is no longer on a battlefield of soldiers and foes, but one with dueling minds and cobblestone streets smeared with crimson. But his work with the brilliant detective still comes with a rush of conflict; making his hand steady and the limp to his leg less pronounced.

Sometimes, the dreams . . . the memories, are not dreams . . . but worse . . . He handles those time well enough, he thinks. Nightmares are never like the movies – they are quiet and pitiful, not screams and thrashing, but merely eyes full with a remembered pain, normally blind to the beholder, upon the waking hour . . .

One of these times – when he remembered the horrors of war rather than the rush of adrenaline – was when he had fallen asleep on the couch while Sherlock once again defied mortal understandings of how a twenty-four hour day worked. (They were stretching onto 31 hours with this one). The images from the case – of a woman and her child both dead, brought back memories . . . Ones he'd much rather forget.

This time was the same as any other. He woke with a quickened pulse, and his breathing came to him in hiccuping gasps . . . And yet, this time, he awakened to a firm hand stubbornly and annoyingly poking him awake from the thralls of the nightmare. He brushed at the annoying finger that was tormenting him, and blearily recognized the warm weight of a blanket over his form . . . a blanket that hadn't been there before when he had nodded off.

He blinked drowsily over at Sherlock, who was once again meticulously going through the files.

"You talk in your sleep when you have nightmares," Sherlock said when he was conscious enough to handle conversation. His tone was light and calm, as if commenting on the weather. "It was a distraction."

John looked queerly at the other man before slowly moving to sit up. The fabric of the blanket was warm in his loosening grip, his tense muscles relaxing as his senses let him return to the waking world. "A distraction," he repeated dubiously. "Of course."

Sherlock looked away from his case files (and an odd collection of broken glass and bubbling chemistry vials) to gaze at him oddly, as if he were one of his puzzles. John merely bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling.

**.**

**.**

**II.** _oh, but how you must have sang . . ._

"Look closely - the splinters caught in the frankly appalling tweed of her coat collar . . . spruce . . . and willow," Sherlock picked one of the splinters up and licked it experimentally. "Ah, and maple! A dense wood, very nice . . . And if I'm not off – which I rarely am – there are honey and egg whites in the varnish . . ."

"Egg whites? . . ." John repeated, bewildered, from next to him.

"Egg whites," Sherlock confirmed. "And a rather salty undertone to the taste . . . potassium borate, is it? Aha, that's it!"

"Would you care to share with the class, Sherlock?" Lestrade made an impatient gesture.

Sherlock got to his feet and looked somberly at the other detective. "My good man, your murder weapon is a Stradivari violin, circa 1680 . . . 1683 to be exact, guessing on the ratio of vernuce bianca varnish to the minerals treating the wood . . ." He breathed in deeply through his nose, and if he were any other man, John would have thought that he was trying to calm himself. "It is truly unpardonable that such a beautiful piece of art could be used in such a crass way . . . Really, the levels that the human race will sink to are sickening at times!"

"Detective," came a voice at the door, and the three men turned to where another officer was approaching them with the shattered remnants of a violin in his hands. "We found this in the alley out back."

Sherlock held out his hands impatiently, and took the violin before Lestrade could.

His close examination of the splintering pattern (caused by a male, one point eighty-nine meters tall, most likely left handed) was almost tender as he fussed over the dead body of the violin as a parent would over that of a new child. "Such a beauty," Sherlock remarked reverently. "Such finesse and detail in the craftsmanship . . . oh, how you must have sung in your time . . ." He stepped carelessly over the corpse with the shattered violin cradled in his arms. "It's quite alright, don't you worry your pretty little head – we will figure out who did this, and see that justice is sought."

Still crouching by Mandy Williams' lifeless form, John and Lestrade traded bewildered, and somewhat tired, glances before getting up to follow. As they always did.

**.**

**.**

**III**._ like a coin, flipped . . ._

"You're going out tonight?"

John looked over at Sherlock from where he was straightening his tie. "I've told you about my dinner-plans with Sarah from the start of the week."

"No – you sighed dreamily about some nonsense, and I promptly stopped listening to your babbling when it became apparent that you weren't going to provide any intelligent conversation."

"Well now you'll know not to ignore my 'babbling' as 'unintelligent nonsense.'"

Sherlock made a face. "Likely," he muttered.

John rolled his eyes as he started to put on his coat.

"So . . . you are going to be out late?"

John looked at him oddly from the corner of his eyes. "What does it matter to you?"

Sherlock rolled his shoulders elegantly. "Nothing in particular," he said briskly, flipping through the manila folders on the table before him. The crime scene photos were merging with the case files in his mind, making a kaleidoscope of facts and figures from strands of brightly colored information.

At least, they would, as soon as he was able to work past the fog in his brain . . .

When the door slipped closed, Sherlock stayed stubbornly in his seat.

For a minute.

. . . Five.

He tapped his pen against the folders.

At six minutes, and seventeen seconds, (just starting on eighteen, but by the time he had used that logic, he was well near twenty seconds), he pushed away from the table with an annoyed huff of air. After another moment of fishing underneath a stack of medical journals to where he had hidden Yorick from the sticky hands of Mrs. Hudson, he sat back down and placed the skull on the table with a satisfied thunk.

"Very well, Yorick, I am afraid that you will have to hear out my thoughts for the evening since my companion so ungraciously left me to sort through this alone."

The silence in return was very uncomfortable indeed. Somewhere within the last few months he had been accustomed to talking to another human being, rather than talking at an inanimate one.

The ramifications of that were most disturbing.

Sherlock looked into the skull's black eyes; while, a labyrinth of a city away . . .

. . . another man looked into the dead eyes of his latest orchestrated kill.

"I think I shall keep you," the man murmured in a gently lilting voice, the tip of his cane tracing a soft line against a dead pulse. "After all, one always thinks better aloud, and you have proven to be a most interesting conversation so far."

He looked at the man at his side, a dime a dozen hired gun who was just wiping the blood off of his hands. "Make it a clean cut, would you – I'd do it myself, but . . ." he gestured down at the black suit he wore, the expensive thread glowing gently in the sparse moonlight. "New suit and all that."

**.**

**.**

**IV**._ I'll keep saying so until I'm blue in the face . . ._

They are on the case of a serial killer in late December – a time of year that John would much rather sip on his sister's familiar, but rather vulgar, eggnog and listen to Sherlock's horror stories about Christmas dinners with his brother, rather than chase murderers through the foggy streets of London. Especially when a jump to a boat in the Themes was botched while chasing an informant (or, as Sherlock put it – "an error in a calculation without all of the variables present.") resulted in the both of them landing for an icy swim in the river.

The human body could generally withstand fifteen minutes in icy water of five degrees Celsius before the blood started retreating from their limbs and leaving them useless and prone. The hyperventilation and shock came almost immediately, though, leaving John with the viciously satisfying mental image of Sherlock floundering in the water. It was almost enough to temper the height of his ire over the situation.

Sherlock didn't bother to apologize during their difficult time finding a cabbie to take their soaked forms home, but he was the first one to put on the tea when they got back to their flat - for a change. And he submitted to John's check-up – temperature, blood pressure, etc. to make sure that there was not lasting damage from their impromptu 'dip'.

"Well, this case is far cry from boring," was all that Sherlock would say with that ridiculous grin that made John want to slap him. When the serial killer was revealed to be a doctor by the name of Eric Shipman, or 'Doctor Death' as the media took to calling him, John felt a slight bit vindicated.

Sherlock was on a high about busting a murderer who had killed at least 218 of his patients by causing his methods to mimic 'natural cause' deaths. (One of the most prolific killers in history, Sherlock was quick to boast, repeatedly.)

When, though, the man hanged himself in his prison cell, denying Sherlock his final interview, the whole of that good mood deflated rather rapidly.

"Either way," John pointed out, "you caught the badguy. What else matters?"

Sherlock tapped the bow of his violin restlessly against the ground; he was unable to hold still. "He died before he could tell me _why_," he growled out in a low, dangerous hiss of a voice.

John raised a brow. "Is that all?"

"'Is that all?'" Sherlock mimicked scornfully. "How pitifully narrow your mind is . . . It is my business to know what other people don't know . . . this I do not know, and now no one will ever know . . . Not ever."

"Some things don't need to be known," he pointed out gently. "That man was not completely balanced – most likely, anything he could have said wouldn't have satisfied you."

Sherlock snorted. "The closest thing to a genius mind, is a mind that is 'unbalanced'. It is what keeps my work interesting . . . It is what keeps my work from being boring – boring like every other insipid nine to five desk job the pitiful of mankind embark on every day. . ."

"Sherlock . . . you are closer to humanity than the sick minds who think of these things . . . It would be good for you to try to remember that, every once in a while."

**.**

**.**

**V. **_dear God, there's a man in a blue box who can rattle off facts even faster than you can . . ._

They are investigating a truly baffling string of murders (bodies being drown in the Themes with odd puncture like wounds – a precise three dozen each) when another man (who had flashed his ever shifting credentials with a grin and a skip) in a bow-tie and messy brown hair 'consulted' the police as well.

While Sherlock did not appreciate the other man doing what he did best (minus annoying Lestrade within an inch of his wits), even John could see the very, _very_ grudging respect that was growing behind the frustration in his eyes.

"Obviously, the puncture wounds are ceremonial – like those of the Pananakan Island natives in the Caribbean. Each one of these victims bear ancestry to that area of the world - "

"The Pananakan are descendents of the . . . gentleman-like-creature we are looking for," the man – the Doctor, returned.

"Extraterrestrials?" Sherlock repeated scornfully. "Based on what _facts_?""

"Whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," the Doctor returned in a sing-song voice, oddly reminiscent of Holmes' _I-told-you-so_ voice.

Sherlock sputtered.

John blinked, and fought to keep his mouth from going agape.

A moment, and a dozen insults later, Lestrade shuffled past the both of them, one step away from putting his hands over his ears and childishly chanting for them to 'just go away.' John looked sympathetically at the other man, before moving to break up the fight. (Which had quickly deteriorated into every other word being well over five syllables.)

"Alright gentleman," he said courteously. "Maybe there is a way to put both of your theories together -"

"Theory?" Sherlock snapped incredulously. "There is no _theory_ – the Pananakan's are famous for their ritualistic sacrifices – the instrument used to make these punctures is reminiscent of the _pishi_ – or, a ceremonial tipple bladed dagger - which was just stolen from the National Antiquities Museum. These victims are all exactly 1.75 meters tall, and have traces of spices indigenous to certain Caribbean islands called pimento under their nails. They contain traces of morphine in their systems – which meant that they were drugged so as to not protest the live ritual. But look – the markings are incomplete – the traditional Pananakan blood art makes a full three triangles intersected by a row of smaller piercings, with actual whole gems ornamenting the final work of art – this 'sacrifice' is incomplete, and therefore not worth the time and effort. Obviously, they were interrupted before they could finish, and the bodies were dumped into the Themes to avoid detection."

"Oh, now you are just showing off," the frighteningly bouncy man who couldn't seem to just stay still was beaming, his eyes alight as a kid before a candy store. At the Doctor's side, his red headed companion held a hand with purple painted nails before her lips to hide a giggle.

When, a case solved and a day saved later, the man and the woman took off into (of all things) a blue box that was much larger on the inside than on the outside, Sherlock muttered for a week about how the fine art of deduction and science was being lost to escapees from the local comic conventions.

John personally thought that there was something to the four armed . . . alien-ish things, that had been the culprits of the murder mystery, but he wisely held his tongue.

**.**

**.**

**VI**. _through thou's immortal tomes made remarkable . . ._

He inflicts his opinions on the world quite often through the form of his blog. What started as a therapist's exercise became something actually enjoyable. Eventually, when sitting back and looking at his words, he still couldn't believe the tales he and Sherlock had lived through.

They sounded just like that sometimes . . . _tales_.

And then Sherlock would blow a hole in the wall, or come home with a bloody golf club to practice murder strokes on an impromptu 'green', and it didn't seem quite so farfetched anymore. He wonders if this adjustment to the extraordinary is something he should worry over.

Sherlock's first reaction to his penning their stories had been a snide sort of distaste (which could have been attributed to his mood. Or _moods_, however one preferred to phrase it.) The detective's ire did little to deter him.

And a few weeks later Sherlock pranced over to him while he was typing and tossed down a thick ream of paper. On the sheets, John recognized his stories from the blog, all struck through in red pen with numerous notes loitering in the margins.

"What are these?" he asked incredulously.

"Edits," Sherlock called behind him as he left as quickly as he came.

John raised a brow, and shook his head. When he placed his tea down he felt slightly gratified when the mug left a pale brown ring on the stack of papers.

And then, a few weeks after that, when Sherlock guiltily snapped his computer shut when he walked into the room, he knew something up. Five minutes of cross questioning, and half a dozen insinuations later, Sherlock finally let him see the screen . . . and his blog up and being eagerly read upon it.

"Admit it – you like the stories," John accused.

Sherlock stiffened as he moved to retrieved a platter of fingers from the freezer. "What rubbish are you spouting now?" he asked absently.

John moved his medical journals to make room for the fingers and Sherlock's latest forensics expiration. "I think you like the attention – what was that you're always spouting about a genius craving recognition?"

"I said that about _criminal_ masterminds – there's a difference."

"Ah, but what about just normal, every-day sort of masterminds?"

"They say that you should watch your commas and your split infinitives," the tone of Sherlock's voice had yet to change, but the gaze that met his was pointed.

John leaned back, and smirked.

On their next case, Sherlock handed him a voice recorder with a large red ribbon tied around it.

"If you're going to write that bloody thing, you may as well do it right," was all that he said, and then he was out the door, uncaring where or how his words landed as his coat snapped impressively out behind him.

John was still for a moment.

"Bloody dramatic effect," he complained enviously.

And then he was on his feet and trailing after him, recorder and notepad in hand.

_._

_._

_FIN_

**~MJ**


	2. between melody and movement

For these next ten ficlets (five of which will be posted now, and the other five later due to length purposes), I put my iTunes on random, and wrote ficlets to what popped up. Which, while a very instructive exercise, was . . . interesting, to say the least. It provided lots of self insight. (I mean, how many songs lend themselves well to certain things before one should worry? )

Anyway, that is enough of my rambling - Enjoy.

* * *

**Part Two: "between melody and movement"**

**.**

**.**

I.

_"My rhyme isn't good just yet,  
My brain and my tongue just met,  
And they aren't friends so far."_  
- "Consequence of Sounds", by Regina Spektor

It had started, if Sherlock remembers correctly – which he always does – very young.

He noticed things, things past the obvious. Things like how his brother was growing too fast for his body to keep up with – all forehead first, it would seem. Things like how Kenneth Leads had been kissing Penny Wentworth because of the shade of very berry lip-gloss that had been on the boy's fingers from where he had try to wipe it away. Eleven year old girls did overdo the lip-gloss, he knew now.

He tried to say these things aloud, and provide an outlet for the thoughts that seemed to ramble over and over in his mind like rapids. At times, that fight for expression felt as if he were trying to find a hole in the ocean. Most of the time, he merely ended up tongue tied, with a small voice and glaring eyes and his mother all thats-very-nice-dear while stirring her tea – but his brother is older, with a tongue like a viper, and he could talk circles around _anybody_. Including his baby brother.

This curious case of awkwardness shows itself when his mind connects point A to point B without stopping to consider that his deductive work could be construed as 'tattling' to his peer's mind. While Mycroft was quick to tell him that Penny's father was the something or the other with some position or other that meant absolutely nothing to him – he really did have more important things to worry about. Such as how Kenneth was now out to get him – with fists twice as big as his own (he grew upwards quickly, but he was always tripping over himself as he waited for the rest of his body to play catch-up). Kenneth came prepared with Basil and Petter - who fairly resembled mountains to his winter sapling of a frame.

When they finally cornered him, Kenneth 'creatively' made his intention of seeing his big head made a bit smaller known. The three bullies decided to tape his mouth shut – and everything else on him, too.

Thankfully, Mycroft wasn't yet above helping his brother out of a bind – and he had an army knife on hand from the number of times he found himself playing savior before.

While Sherlock was forcibly restrained, and dependent on the help given him, Mycroft had a rare opportunity to speak calmly about the Holmes family name while he patiently helped free the younger boy out of the duck tape. Somehow, the tape seemed to get stickier every time . . .

If he didn't insist on not letting mum cut his hair, it wouldn't hurt so much getting the tape out, Mycroft insisted, already sounding incredibly pompous and overbearing.

Someday, Sherlock would learn to keep his mouth shut to the people who were actually trying to help him. But his thoughts were racing a hundred different ways at speeds that made his temples ache in their wake. The ups and the downs and the ins and the outs . . . (He would whisper in a quick and garbled tongue about the pressure in his head, too many thoughts and not enough room – and his brother would recommend simply erasing what was unnecessary to make room for what was truly important. Sherlock may not have bowed down at his brother's feet – but sometimes, when it came to this, Mycroft was the only other on who understood. He saw the exact shade of people's shoes, and noticed that his teacher removed her wedding ring on every Wednesday and didn't put it back on until Friday, and that the janitor had yellowed eyes and glass cuts on his hands . . . When his brother recommended a hobby to keep his thoughts straight, his mind vengefully leapt to the violin he had been squeaking away on – six different tutors having came and gone already – that drove his brother mad. The piano, Mycroft had tried to convince their mother, didn't sound nearly as grating when one was learning to refine ones skill.)

Of course, he wasn't going to _tell_ his brother everything he was thinking. And he was left alone with those thoughts when his prickly tongue barbed at his brother until Mycroft left him to finish getting himself free of the tape, alone.

At least Mycroft had left him the knife, however annoyed he was.

**.**

**.**

II.

_"I have a mind for simple things,  
but things are not of mind to simplify."_  
- "Passion Colors Everything", by Poets of the Fall

After only a week of sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes, he had helped to solve two murder mysteries, one assisted suicide plot, and one spectacular case of serial homicide (with a shady puppet master lurking somewhere in the background to further apprehend).

By Monday of the second week, John Watson came to the conclusion that his deduction skills needed a serious brush up. And to do so he slipped into the bookstore and came out with half a dozen books ranging from 'Forensic Science' and 'Private Detective Work for Idiots', to a thick volume of last years most shocking murder cases, and an embarrassing amount of murder mystery novels.

When his 'guide for idiots' made him feel more like the aforementioned title would suggest, he spent more time than he knew was healthy on the murder mystery novels. While James Patterson's books were farfetched and Dean Koontz would probably never prove useful to him, Mr. Monk's adventures were just plain fun to read, and he further debased himself by reading the actual, honest to goodness Richard Castle novel that was just recently published. An American run of televised crime drama was also perused, but at audible volumes that couldn't alert Sherlock to his viewings – the last thing he wanted was his flatmate with him and spoiling the ending to every episode.

At one point he thought of putting pen to paper himself. Already the cases Sherlock embarked on were enough to boggle the mind in any form – especially on the pages of a novel. He stared blankly at the empty comment box for his blog as he thought so, an idea tickling at the back of his mind.

He buys a magnifying glass out of some misplaced sense of humor.

He supposes that this lieu of self teaching was fairly ridiculous – but he didn't feel as much so when Sherlock found his magnifying glass, and took to closely inspecting Yorick with it. John was sure that he saw the skull grimace in distaste.

And yet, when Sherlock found a copy of James Patterson's latest novel out on the coffee table – between the platter of fingers (which he couldn't think about too closely without blanching) and the bubbling chemistry set, there was a long glance and a raised eyebrow.

John had come to respect that raised eyebrow – it often lead to all sorts of dialogue that made his head spin and his blood pressure raise. Often, not always in that order.

Sherlock was not one to disappoint. He thumbed through the book, his face scrunched up in distaste as he muttered "dull, dull, and even more so" under his breath in a mortified whisper. Finally, after a disappointed snort, he threw the book.

Of course, it landed in such a way that the pages were bent.

"Abstract thrillers with absurd plots, facile trickery, little to no actual science, and simply dreadful prose," Sherlock gave his rather frank opinion.

"Well, I never said I was reading Shakespeare, now did I?" John said crossly, picking up the book, and smoothing the wrinkled corners with a vexed look at his flatmate.

"The obvious has never been less required to say than that," Sherlock snorted.

John made a face at his friend. Conveniently, Sherlock was not looking up to see it.

Stubbornly, John sat back in his chair, and pointedly opened the novel to the page he had bookmarked – noticing with dismay that Sherlock had used the book as a coaster. There was a faded brown ring on it that spoke to a sloppy hand on the tea cup. Of course, his roommate would never admit to that – he would simply say that he had more important things to worry about than his hand eye coordination.

John stayed in the room, and made quote the show of reading his novel - loudly 'hmm-ing' and 'ah-ing' and flipping the pages with an exaggerated snap of the paper, until Sherlock got up and pointedly said that he had a body to examine at St. Barts. His steps on the stairs were a quick rap-tap-tap that spoke of his petulant annoyance; his coat billowing behind him impressively.

Triumphant, John put the novel down, and got up to get to work himself.

That evening, he returned home late. When he finally sat down to relax, and he picked up the book again, the whole of the novel was littered with a tight and spidery script in the margins of the book. The obnoxious red ink of the 'corrections' and 'edits' was almost as bad as the whole pages that were torn out (needless for the plot, was Sherlock's explanation on a sticky note) and other pages had 'boring' scribbled across the whole of them in thick red marker. Apparently, Sherlock had taken offense to the author's perceiving of the deductive arts, and did not wish John to mar his thinking with such a pattern.

The fictional killer's name was written obnoxiously across the page he had bookmarked, and at that John finally rolled his eyes in annoyance and flung the book down.

**.**

**.**

**III.**

_"Her blood's on my hands,  
It's kind of a shame,  
'Cause I did like that dress."_  
- "Yes, Anastasia", by Tori Amos

Someday, he hoped that he would get used to coming home, and seeing Sherlock neck deep in something . . . odd. All for the sake of science, of course. Or boredom. Or both, if the conditions were ideal.

And while he could get used to the heads in the fridge and the pickle jars filled with eyes, and even the various chemistry sets and vials of things he didn't know the names to, this was . . . This was . . .

"Sherlock, might I ask what you are doing?" John asked cautiously. "Or is this something you'd rather not talk about?"

It took a few moments for the detective to actually acknowledge his presence, and when he did it was a cursory glance over Watson, and then over the woman behind him. "Evening, John, Sarah," he said distractedly.

John glanced behind him, to see the same curious frown on Sarah's face. Shrugging at her, he hesitantly moved into the kitchen. As he went he saw a large plastic evidence bag – and a torn and stained yellow dress that was within it. Alongside the telltale shades of rust and dirty brown on the fabric, there was a more curious shade of pink and red . . .

John rolled his eyes at his friend. "Does Lestrade know you have this?" he asked, somewhat exasperated.

Sherlock didn't bother deigning him with a reply. "Leona Willis – age twenty-three, stab victim."

Which explained the tears and stains. Most of them . . .

"And this is helping you solve the case, how . . .?"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said, "these." And he gestured to the swatches of yellow fabric blotching the table; stacked on his medical journals and straying as coasters under his chemistry vials. Each scrap of cloth had a perfect kiss like stain on them. All in varying shades . . .

Which apparently came from the small tubes of lipstick that sat in two straight lines on the table, arranged completely in order of shade from the pinks to the plums. Sherlock wiped his mouth off with a rag that had clearly seen the same treatment for quite a few tries before.

"The killer made the mistake of using a shade of lipstick with a very high content of lead in it – you see the smears on the dress? No doubt they were unintentionally left from the ensuing scuffle with the victim. I merely need to know how long the lipstick has been there, and to test that I am seeing how various amounts of traces of lead in different lipsticks would hold out. So far, I have my closest match in 'pomegranate-stain-red', and 'in-too-pink'."

Even with his explanation made, John was still trying to tell himself that it was perfectly logical for Sherlock to be putting on lipstick. But to see the other man actually pick up a tube that held an alarming shade of scarlet, and carefully apply it with aide of a small hand held mirror was really testing his fortitude to just not laugh.

Oblivious to John choking back his giggles, Sherlock carefully pressed his lips against a blank square of cloth. When done, he wiped his lips and picked up the next tube.

"Well, that was wise," John couldn't help himself. "That shade didn't match your complexion at all."

At his side, Sarah's giggles were lost when Sherlock raised the next tube to his lips with a Look at his flatmate. She stepped up to the table to peer more intently at the lippy in his hands. "Bloody hell, Holmes – is that my lipstick?" she asked irately.

"You shouldn't leave your things strewn across the sink," Sherlock countered as his answer.

Watson raised a brow that said clearly said 'hypocrite', while Sarah sputtered. "So that _is_ mine?"

Sherlock didn't even blink. "As are those two samples," he pointed at two other scraps of yellow cloth, one a 'kiss-me-kate' shade and another a shade of 'ruby-slippers-red'. "Although I find that the 'ruby-slippers' shade was a poor choice for your facial structure," he said absently, "it draws attention to your nose."

Sarah glared at the offhand comment. "Thanks," she scathed.

"Anything to assist," Sherlock muttered, engrossed in his task. When he capped the tube of lipstick, he looked thoughtful for a moment before 'considerately' turning to return the cosmetic to Sarah.

"You can keep them now," she scrunched her nose in distaste.

Sherlock blinked up at her, a frown on his lips. "Whatever would I want to keep them for?"

She snorted, but when she shook her head, there was an amused tilt to the annoyed turn of her mouth. John could understand the conundrum of feeling – having experienced it many times himself.

He heard a familiar beeping, and patted his hands over his coat for his phone.

Sherlock took it from his own pocket, and handed it to John, who leveled an annoyed look at him. It was lost on Sherlock as he looked back down at his lipstick samples.

John flipped the phone open, and rolled his eyes. "Lestrade wants his evidence back," he told his friend.

The phone buzzed again.

"He wants his evidence back, _now_," John amended. "And there are exclamation points."

"How many?" Sherlock asked absently.

"Three."

"Good – I have two more to go before I truly make him truly angry."

The phone buzzed once more, and John shook his head. "And there you have five exclamation points. Sherlock, what do you want me to tell him?"

Sherlock smirked triumphantly, and capped the lippy in his hand as he bounded to his feet. "Tell him that I found his color!"

**.**

**.**

**IV. **

_"I get stronger in the splendor  
of a lucid moon.  
Only creatures of the night  
can heal my aching wounds." _  
- "The Spell", by Kamelot

When John was asked to join his friend right outside of London, at Moore Manor, he admitted to be a bit surprised. The manor was a spacious place (later, he would find that out that Mycroft Holmes had it restored and furnished for a League of government agents who were quite . . . extraordinary) with rolling green acres and rich pastures. Past the orchards and riding lanes, the rich mansion house was intimidating with gargoyles leering from the top of the masonry, and marble halls and gilded portraits to grant an eerily opulant feeling within. John awkwardly greeted the butler before snapping automatically into a military pose – his back straight and his head tilted up proudly in reflex as he walked.

When he was shown into an ornate dining hall, the tall and dark form of his friend was hard to miss. Across the table from Sherlock, daintily drinking her tea was a particularly lovely woman who warranted his attention longer than he would have admitted to.

She was small – if she stood, the crown of her dark curls would come to his brow. Even so she was slender and curved, an easy sort of catlike grace clinging to her even in her small movements of her hands on her tea cup. She was dressed in black – black breeches and polished leather boots. A black vest was clenched tight over a loose white shirt, whose sleeves billowed around her arms with an old-world style. Her riding gloves and crop were underneath her hat, sitting within easy reach.

She was almost shockingly pale – a porcelain shade of white with hair such a dark shade of brown that it seemed black, even in the high morning light. In contrast, her lips were a scarlet slash against her face, the same shade as the crimson scarf that she had neatly tucked around her neck. The ends trailed down her back, almost to the floor.

Sherlock looked up at him as he approached, pleased. "Ah, you're here. John Watson, may I present to you the truly immortal Wilhelmina Murray," he gestured to the woman.

"Madame Mina," he inclined his head, "my colleague, Doctor John Watson."

The woman tilted warm eyes to look at him. "Doctor," she greeted.

"Madame," he nodded his head, taking her proffered hand to kiss in remembrance of childhood etiquette. He sat down next to Sherlock, and was grateful for the tea to give his hands something to do.

"I have used your friend's services before," Mina revealed once they were settled, "and I am quite anxious to have his assistance again."

John looked at Sherlock, who elaborated for him. "I helped her retain custody of her son during her divorce ten years ago, by proving that she was not the culprit of a rather ghastly string of serial killings that stretched from here to Whitby to Budapest." He taped the side of his neck. "Leechings, very nasty business."

Mina shifted the fabric of her scarf, and narrowed her eyes. "Well then, Detective. Now that your colleague is here, I would like to overview my proposition for you."

Sherlock looked at her with a carefully blank face. Under the table, his feet were tapping an anxious cadence against the ground.

"You see, a member of my League has gone missing -"

"- and my brother couldn't keep tabs on him this time?"

"Your brother's manners of taming this one man in particular I do not feel the need to completely rely on," there was a distaste in her voice that matched Sherlock's. "Now, Allan and Griffin have tracked this man from a rather . . . low part of Montmarte in Paris, but lost track of him when he crossed the Channel. I expect poor Henry to be in London as we speak, but unfortunately . . . he is not quite himself."

"Too many fumes from his chemistry sets again?" Sherlock asked.

"You may put it that way," she answered.

"So, am I to be looking for an Edward, rather than a Henry?"

Mina didn't answer, but she did pass a manila folder across the table to Sherlock. Sherlock opened it, and inside John glimpsed photos from murdered victims – all strangulation and brute force, it looked like.

"Ah," Sherlock said. "We are most definitely looking for an Edward."

"Unfortunately," she said, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off of her shoulder. "I need you to help me find him, Detective. Mycroft's ways of handling Edward only result in more bloodshed, and more pain for Henry when he comes to his senses once more. I can . . . influence his transformations, if we keep this discreet."

John blinked, and looked at the rather petite woman again . . . she was going to influence that man (who was clearly of impressive stature to carry out the killings he had seen in the file) how?

"Not all fights are with firsts," Mina said to the look in his eyes. "Or words, even."

Sherlock clapped a hand on John's shoulder. "And trust me, she can take you." He turned to Mina. "I will find you your missing madman, Miss Murray."

She smiled. "I had suspected that you would." She turned, and her dark eyes spied out two men at the entryway. One was clearly a foreign man, complete with turban and rich sapphire colored robes. The other was an older man who looked dressed for a Sahara expedition. The older man tipped his hat at Mina, and she nodded discreetly back at him.

"Griffin is still tracking him as we speak," she revealed, "And Allan and I have further contacts to meet with. We shall keep you abreast of any developments. Thank-you for your time, Detective," she said. "I shall see you at the end of this, if the fates move kindly."

"You have always skipped through them so well before," Sherlock replied.

Her eyes twinkled. "Perhaps."

She rose, and moved to leave. Sherlock watched her for a moment before jumping to his feet. "Come now, John, we have not a moment to loose!"

John raised a brow, still sitting. Sherlock rarely took on cases involving missing persons – too simple, he had always said when faced with such cases before. Boring, even.

"Yes, but we are dealing with a brilliant madman with one of the clearest cut cases of bipolar disorder that I could dream of meeting." Sherlock answered the thoughts that he had apparently voice aloud.

"Oh, is that all?" John asked sarcastically.

"That, and I'll be damned if I let Quatermain and that blasted Wells fellow find Mr. Hyde before I do!"

**.**

**.**

**V. **

_"Every second, dripping off my fingertips  
(wage your war)  
A clock is ticking, but it's hidden far away.  
(safe and sound)"_  
- "Somewhere a Clock is ticking", by Snow Patrol

He is issued a challenge by a man with a taste for gunpowder and details. The time stamps on the victims are unexpected, but welcome, the pressure of his deductions is like a fine wine through his veins, heady and intoxicating, and he finds that he moves with a fluidity under the pressure that he yields to unthinkingly.

The challenges are delightful as well – inviting his mind to truly stretch and flex rather than stir sluggishly to deduce the inane creativity of the world at large.

First there is Carl Powers – drown in a swimming pool by an angry young man who didn't take too kindly to being laughed at. That murder had been a genesis for their mysterious killer; the same as it had been for Sherlock – who had tried to draw attention to the oddity of the death, and failed.

Then there is Ian Monkford – deep in debt with a way out, with telling tans and frozen blood . . . After solving, he whispers his assailant's name on his lips, and feels a thrill slip through him, dark and deviant, even as is almost sure that he is working his mind over in a semblance of justice.

Connie Prince follows – a delicious case where the time is slashed on him. He can feel the seconds as prickles up and down his spine, and doesn't need to glance at the countdown once. When he looses this round he feels something like a pang, but it is hidden under the eyes that are glancing to the next challenge – for surely there would be one. He can feel the weight of John's disapproval over how engrossed he is with the madman who is proving to be like a coin, flipped to him, but that too is lost over the next . . .

Alex Woodbridge – a tricky fellow, with brutish assassins and manipulated masterpieces (Vermeer was a veneer, it would seem) and proof that, yes, basic knowledge of the solar system does in fact come in handy. Every once in a while.

. . . perhaps, anyway.

Andrew West is a poor soul who trusted too much and had too much to loose. When Sherlock took the memory drive he died for, and told Watson that he'd return it, his friend, already frustrated and disappointed (which he tells himself he is not bothered by), believed him before leaving for the evening.

Sherlock did not expect to see him again so soon, with explosives strapped to his chest, and red dots tracing over the fuse points like a caress.

_Burn the heart from him_, Moriarty had said, blue depths reflected for the nothingness in his eyes – and he snorted at the line (shouldn't only villains in spandex and capes say those sorts of things?) even as he felt adrenaline flood his veins in preparation for an end he genuinely couldn't foresee.

The only thing he knew for sure was that if he were to go up in flames, then he certainly could take the man holding the match down with him.

He levels his aim; and pulls the trigger.

**~MJ**


End file.
